


In Wolf's Clothing

by dogmatix, norcumi



Series: A Supplemental Star to Steer By [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, First Meetings, GFY, Gen, Goa'uld Jedi, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogmatix/pseuds/dogmatix, https://archiveofourown.org/users/norcumi/pseuds/norcumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Plo Koon seemed prepared to do his job as General and Jedi. His Commander appreciates that, but would like a little more participation from Jedi and host.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Wolf's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

> Please note there is torture in this chapter. It's hopefully not too graphic nor long, but it exists.

**Seven months into the Separatist Uprising**  
**Republic Starcruiser** _Steadfast_  
  


Wolffe was surprised to find General Koon in the forward mess. He’d met Plo Koon and his Kel Dor host, Dai Parum, when they’d been assigned to the star cruiser _Steadfast._ In the days since the cruiser had left Coruscant space, though, almost every time Wolffe had seen the Jedi, they’d been meditating. It looked damned uncomfortable, legs hiked up and feet twisted around, boots set up neatly nearby. With the goggles and breath-mask, it was only the tiny changes in breathing patterns that let anyone know if the Jedi was awake, asleep, or possibly dead.

Ok. He didn’t think anyone would be willing to go with ‘dead,’ but some of the men were getting antsy. They were getting regular word about the lines of engagement as the _Steadfast_ approached its destination, and the Seps were making a push for something. The only time Wolffe really had to interact with either Koon or Dai Parum was their short daily briefings, which didn’t amount to much while in transit.

“Sir.”

He didn’t know what to make of the look he got from the General. It was odd, the brows drawing together but the body language indicating openness. “Please, save it for the actual military.” The voice was lighter and faster than Koon’s grave speech patterns.

He nodded, shoving down his dislike of the non-standard approach. “Of course, Sage Parum. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Parum’s snort echoed strangely in the breath mask he had to wear, given that Kel Dor found oxygen to be poisonous – corrosive, too, though Wolffe wasn’t entirely sure if he should believe that bit of intel on his new commanding officer. He wasn’t about to risk it, though, and he’d put his squad and all squad leaders through a quiet regime of drills to deal with any situations where something might happen to the mask. “Even I can only meditate so much, and the forward lounge area was starting to be used for a bit too much rough housing.”

Wolffe shot a glance at the man as Parum accepted a pouch of something sloshy from one of the mess workers. Couldn’t eat like the troops, either. He didn’t know what they did on Dorin. Had to be a weird lifestyle switch.

The Jedi straightened, shoulders going back as he took on that poised cant to the head. Wolffe got a solemn nod along with the bunching of Koon’s face above the mask that was an identifiable smile.

“Commander,” the deep voice declared, measured cadence making Koon’s voice sound more powerful than Sage Parum’s.

Koon and Parum weren’t the first Jedi Wolffe had served under, or even the second. He was used to the balancing act of essentially having two commanding officers in one body. Wolffe tried not to let personal feelings colour his interactions with his C.O.’s, but he had to admit he liked Koon more than Parum. The Jedi had a gravitas that Parum didn’t seem to care about, while managing to have a deadpan sense of humor, whereas Parum rarely joked, and had the tendency to snicker at the oddest things.

Species difference, had to be. These things happened. Didn’t make Wolffe warm to the man any, though.

“What can I do for you?”

Wolffe grabbed his tray of lunch rations and hustled over to the officer’s table. When they were both seated, he gave Koon a level glare. “Sir, I’ve been trying for the last three days to run some drills in the hanger. By this point I don’t care if it’s emergency latrine maintenance, but we _have_ to practice group responses. I respect that you and your host have been communing with the Force or whatever in ways I doubt I could imagine, but when we hit the ground you and the men need to have had some experience together.”

Koon had a good reputation. Parum was considered decent. Yet almost no one aboard the _Steadfast_ knew how they were in battle. The men didn’t like it. Wolffe _hated_ it.

He’d heard from Warthog that Koon was the best kind of devil in flight, but Warthog had actually _flown_ with the Jedi. There was apparently no problem getting him into a starfighter, but the word of several vacuum jockies wasn’t enough to counter the utter absence of experience in other areas.

Besides, Warthog was Koon’s wingman. That demanded at least a little embroidery on any reports. That was just how pilots were.

The Jedi sat, motionless, barely breathing. Wolffe didn’t like how it was a little rough figuring out if it was Koon or Parum he was interacting with, but with the mask and goggles in place, the usual visual cues were a no-go. Body language was good, but not always useful.

Koon nodded, slow and a bit contemplative. The tusks to his breath-mask flexed in a way Wolffe hadn’t seen before. “Very well, Commander. What do you advise?”

Oh, thank the Force. Wolffe relaxed a little, relieved that his General was seeing sense.

* * *

The first drills were standard battle-station run-throughs. Boring, but boring was good, in this case. The second set of drills went far worse. Wolffe had to chew out some bungling shinies as a pretext to kill the mock scramble for a land assault. Normally he’d leave that to their squad leaders, but he didn’t want anyone to see the way the General froze up on the way into the Larty. It was Wolf Pack only inside, so that at least meant word wouldn’t get around, but that was not good enough.

When he was satisfied that his tirade had scoured some 104th gray from those idiots’ armor, Wolffe stalked to the General’s quarters. He let his ire show, because the more the men thought he was furious that shinies had bungled _that badly_ their very first day of drills with the General, the less they were likely to think back and recall the way Parum’s hands had been shaking as he imitated Koon’s stroll from the hanger.

Wolffe wasn’t surprised that the door slid open before he was even in range to use the door-chime. A wave of the hand from Koon closed it behind Wolffe, who came to attention. “Sir. I apologize for the troops’ incompetence. The squad leaders have reassured me– ”

“Enough, Wolffe.” Koon raised a hand, his voice sounding exhausted. “I hope they have not suffered too much trauma.”

“Just enough, sir. Regardless of circumstances, that is not how they were trained.”

* * *

Plo sighed along with Dai as his host lowered their hand. Dai slumped a little further, exhaustion overcoming his minimal care about appearances as he stared at their Commander. “Training.” It wasn’t quite a scoff, though Dai’s internal flailing about how the military _wasted_ so many precious lives burned a little. Plo loved the man, but he could be such a sheltered Sage sometime. Dai didn’t even seem to notice the way Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, jaw clenching just a little. “All of you, training and training and – How can you be so comfortable, charging to your deaths?”

Plo resisted the urge to close their eyes and put face to palm. He and Dai had an agreement. Plo would keep his opinions and observations to himself if Dai once again blithely put his foot in his mouth, and would only intervene if things were looking dire. Though Plo was always free to provide details later, of course.

Plo did wish incidents like this happened less often, though.

Wolffe lifted his chin, shoulders squaring, going from comfortably at attention to dress parade precision. “ _Sir._ We aren’t. We’re going to battle, which yes, is what we’re trained for. It’s what we were born to-”

“You were born to _host_.”

Force. Plo kept his groan to himself through heroic efforts. He knew that Dai did not mean harm by the comment, that it was not relegating the clones to mindless bodies, good only as vehicles of transport for Jedi. Given the way Wolffe’s head snapped down and the glare leveled at them, there was no mistaking that the soldier took it _exactly_ that way. “ _Sir,_ ” the Commander growled. “That is–!”

“A moment, please, Commander Wolffe,” Plo said, because if an adult did not step in then Dai Parum would do far more than put his foot in his mouth.

Plo couldn’t keep the exhaustion from his voice, though. Wolffe visibly ground his teeth, but gave a jerky nod. “Finish the thought, Dai.” Plo said, addressing his host out loud for Wolffe’s benefit. “It is not a clear trail.”

# _What? What are you talking about?_ #

Plo sent along the cues he’d seen, and Dai Parum flushed an ugly shade of orange. “Gods. Dammit, I did not– ” He shook his head. “Not like you’re mindless nerf!” # _Oh, stars, that came out all wrong!_ # “I meant, the very calling of your...people? You are raised in the Mandalorian tradition, and yes, I understand they are warriors, but just because you are trained to do something does not mean it is a calling! Over eighty-five percent of the entire Order hosts within clones. That is not so those hosted are more ready to fight!”

Frustrated confusion verging on hostility radiated from Wolffe at such strength that it was clear even to Dai. Plo guessed that only the chain of command kept Commander Wolffe civil. “The Mandalorian Accords state that the Jedi must maintain a ready army. I’m not sure I see how that doesn’t involve fighting.”

“Because the army makes up less than half of what clones tend to choose as a career. The vast majority work for the Order, doing whatever needs doing. A significant percentage do an average of two stints in cryo, and at least six on active duty before they take up civilian careers or retire – if they do not get pulled from cryo _to_ host.”

 _Dai, numbers do not solve all problems!_ Force, sometimes biting his tongue was so damned difficult, particularly when he could feel Parum’s enthusiasm, how he was warming on one of his favorite topics.

Plo could also feel Wolffe’s rising confusion.

“If you look at the numbers, Commander,” Dai continued, “the majority of Jango Fett’s descendants are not _dying_ for the Jedi Order, they are _living_ for it. No matter what clones end up doing, the first prerogative is _hosting_. Reservists make up less than three percent of all clones. Do you understand how many beings that makes, how many of you are essentially saying your first option is to host? It is not to fight and _die_ like, like pawns on a dejarik table!”

“First you complain that we’re dying too much, now you’re saying we don’t die _enough_?” Wolffe burst out, hands clenched tight at his sides.

“That’s not what I said at all!” Dai shot to his feet, voice raised to match Wolffe’s.

Plo watched Wolffe’s lips fall into a sneer.

“Enough!” Plo barked, stepping in again.

Dai and Wolffe both jerked slightly, Plo’s deep-voiced interjection pulling them from their budding argument.

Wolffe straightened to ramrod attention, eyes fixed on the middle distance. “Sir. I apologize for my behavior, I realize that I have been insubordinate- ”

“Wolffe, a moment please.” Plo asked, less severe than before.

“Sir.”

Plo turned his attention to Dai. The Kel Dor’s passion for how the Order tried to support its people, how the Mandalorian Accords had bound the clones into its core structure, even as it provided for the needs of those clones, was one of the things Plo liked about his host. It _was_ a fascinating field of study, even if it was not Plo’s passion.

# _Dai. I understand the point you’re trying to make, but your conversational style, while interesting, is difficult for a more linearly inclined mind to follow_.#

# _Apparantly_.# Dai snapped, indignant anger still twisting inside him.

# _Dai_ ,# Plo said in gentle reproof.

Frustration spiked, then calmed, and Dai settled himself. # _How do I say what I want to say without saying what I’ve already said?_ # came the exasperated but sincere question.

# _Well, you might start with an apology_ ,# Plo counseled gently.

Dai Parum shook their head, slumping back into the seat and running a hand along the face mask. “Commander Wolffe, I apologize for any insult I offered you or any of the other clones. What I meant to say was that the clones are so much more than merely cannon fodder for some blasted war. You are in many ways the backbone of the Jedi Order, and you deserve to be acknowledged as such. But since this war started, the death rate among them has been staggering, even more so than among Jedi. This is the first time in history since the Mandalorian Accords that clones have seen these kinds of fatalities. The number of lives we lost at the start of the war in attacks on cryo facilities is horrendous. You and your people,” Plo nudged Dai, offering a suggestion, “your _brothers_ , deserve better than that, better than being killed while you sleep!”

“Ba’jur, Beskar’gam, Aliit, Ara’nov, Mando’a, Mand’alor!” Wolffe snapped, somewhat mollified but still angry. “Nu naak!”

Stars take him, Parum stared blankly. _Man speaks six different languages, and none of them are Mando’a._ Plo Koon took control from his confused host. “No, peace is not one of your tenants,” he agreed. “I must apologize. Our areas of study have more to do with current trends than ancient ones.”

“Plo.” Parum was irked, though Wolffe’s ire rattled across their senses just as strongly. # _What does that MEAN?_ #

“You look to past trends and how they might affect current ones, my friend. These men _live_ them. The Manda’lor laid out specific requirements on how they were to be raised, and the Resol’nare keeps them tied to their roots.” He sent a quick reminder to Dai of the ancient guidelines to the Mandalorian people. “It is easy to be adrift in time if you are frozen in carbonite. If they did not have their heritage and family; if they did not have their direction and purpose, then what _do_ we leave them with? A pension?”

* * *

Wolffe almost nodded. General Plo understood.

Parum glared off to one side. Finally he sighed and shook his head. “My apologies again, Commander.” He looked at Wolffe, who still had the urge to growl. “I’m afraid that circumstances sometimes lead me to speak without thinking – or consulting those more widely read than I.”

“I see. Sir.”

“I also...have a confession, Commander.”

Wolffe fought down the first dozen retorts, settling on a neutral “Oh?”

Parum didn’t look at him for the longest time. Then he heaved a sigh and shook his head. “I’m sorry, old friend,” he murmured, probably not intending it to be loud enough for Wolffe to hear. “I was too optimistic. And you were right. You are needed. I don’t need to like numbers to see that.” He took in another deep breath and looked at Wolffe. “I have never been comfortable in more...enclosed spaces. A star fighter is one thing – you can _see_ all that space out there. The Larty...is an altogether different beast.” He bowed his head as if in apology. “I cannot host Councilor Koon.”

Wolffe’s mind was awhirl. Enclosed spaces. The way Parum was endlessly fidgety when they met in the small stateroom. How he meditated outside of the General’s quarters and instead in the much larger and noisier lounge areas.

The way he looked at the lists of injured and dead, and cringed like a civilian, and then tried to stiffen his spine and be all gung ho about going to war.

Damn. He couldn’t tell if he admired the man, or strongly disliked him.

Koon saved Wolffe from having to figure it out by standing. “We are only a little more than two days from our destination. We’ll have to contact the Council and see what can be done.” He gestured politely towards the door. “Commander? We might have need of your knowledge.”

Wolffe followed his General to the coms, still trying to figure out what to make of this entire clusterfuck.

* * *

Plo sighed and rubbed a hand across his brow. This was far more complex than he really wanted. For that matter, this was precisely why he’d _had_ so many conversations with Dai before they’d gone off to fight.

Oh, he understood his host’s plight. He sympathized. Dai Parum was a good man, who wanted to step up and do his part. He was not the kind of host that was willing to participate only until matters became difficult.

Neither was he the kind of host that was willing or eager to shed blood and take lives. Nor the kind of host to _risk_ lives by committing their forces to battle.

Plo Koon desperately hoped he was not broadcasting his headache to his host. The logistics of compiling the Search profiles for Plo at a moment’s notice, not to mention sending likely candidates to a Force damned battle-front – it was a mess _and_ a nightmare. He’d been with Dai for nearing five decades now, and they’d been a match by a wide margin. Plo was not optimistic about the potential results of a madcap scramble for a suitable host – _any_ suitable host – but they _needed_ a General on the ground at Felucia, as soon as possible. There simply wasn’t _time_ to be finicky.

So he, Ki-Adi Mundi, and Depa Billaba had been through several rounds of possibilities. It seemed that his fellow councilors were homing in on the unpalatable notion of his swift return to the nearest Temple while someone else would come out and replace him.

It rankled, and left poor Dai mentally squirming with apologetic shame.

“Excuse me, sirs.”

Wolffe’s voice cut through the logistics. “Yes, Commander?”

The man was standing at attention, looking off into the distance with a brow raised as if there were some perplexing matter at hand. “I’m not sure I understand the problem, General.”

Plo blinked. “Beg pardon, Commander?”

“I’m trained to host, and if we send Host Parum back upon coming out of hyper, then there’s no lag time in battle plans or inappropriate demands upon your host.”

# _...oh Force, we are all idiots,_ # Dai grumbled.

# _Not idiots, merely unaccustomed to field decisions._ # In many ways, seven months was a very long time, when it came to war, but habits – especially habits of thought – did not change so quickly, sometimes.

# _Well, at least someone here is trained for it._ # Plo could feel the genuine discomfort underneath the humor. A wave of exasperated affection washed over Plo. Dai tried. He’d wanted to do his part. It wasn’t the man’s fault that he could not stand the notion of ordering people to their death, even for the good of others, the need to _protect_ others.

Plo wasn’t sure he was any better, but he had a responsibility. He had to try. That was what the Jedi did, after all. “You are entirely correct, Commander. How shall we proceed?”

* * *

Wolffe shifted awkwardly. He was sitting in a chair in the General’s– no, in Dai Parum’s personal quarters. It was provided with its own air flow, the precise mix of chemicals that the Kel Dor needed to survive. Wolffe was very conscious of the sounds of his breaths inside the oxygen mask suctioned to his face. Most human-safe atmospheres were toxic to Kel Dor. While the Dorian chemical mix wasn’t actively toxic to humans, Wolffe would pass out from lack of oxygen in short order, if he tried to breathe it.

He and Dai Parum sat in chairs at the small table, facing each other. Wolffe knew there was supposed to be something about enough candidates to line the table or something – it was round, not square, and was that right? – and special cushions and clothes and instead they were both in their duraplast armor.

He kept up a blank expression as Parum removed his antiox mask, revealing dark eyes and a vertical facial crevasse with what Wolffe could only tentatively label a mouth underneath a beak of a nose. Sometimes holos had nothing on reality.

Parum took a deep breath, those dark and silver eyes closing for a long moment. Then his hands rose to his mouth, and a slim, fanged shape emerged, moving slow and careful. Plo Koon was a deep burgundy, his fins a shade of dark orange. Wolffe could feel the weight of General’s Koon’s regard in four bright green eyes and a slight tilt of the head.

Parum’s gravitas – and hesitation – in handing the General over wasn’t difficult to read. Not a lack of trust so much as a misplaced sense of duty, or perhaps an overinflated sense of importance.

Wolffe didn’t much care, either way. He took the General one-handed, gulping in a deep breath of oxygen before removing his mask. He’d done this before, in training.

Wasn’t ever easy, wasn’t ever anything but weird as fuck to let another sentient slither into his mouth. A little sensation across the lips and tongue, then numbness – it was the numbness that made him want to squirm, almost made him want to puke every time the whole way through ARC training. This time it was even weirder than usual, counting seconds as the General entered. Seconds until he could bring the mask back, could breathe.

The sensation of assent, encouragement had Wolffe moving the mask back maybe a bit quicker than he needed to. The first few gasped breaths were a little too measured and precise to escape Parum’s notice. Wolffe was annoyed at himself and Dai Parum both – himself, for showing a form of weakness, and Dai Parum for witnessing it. It hardly mattered; the transfer was complete, and Wolffe’s General was situated. Worst case, he’d have to do that once more to let the General move to a better suited host, but that was likely to be at least a week out, maybe two.

There was a voice, a _presence_ , in Wolffe’s mind. # _Thank you, Commander._ #

It wasn’t just the tone. That matched the sound Koon’s voice had. It was the feel: the power and protectiveness and serenity, mixed with determination and consideration. Wolffe had never felt the like, and he had to wonder if all hosts experienced this sensation of rightness, as if they had expanded with the addition to their being. He had no idea if hosting a Jedi should feel like the universe had just flexed around him, settling into a new and much better shape.

If it did, then what the _fuck_ had he been doing wrong during training?

If it didn’t, then what the hells did it mean?

* * *

Plo was a little surprised at the feel of Wolffe’s mind. It had been many years since he’d had a human host, and that had been for the relatively short period when he’d been an initiate, training with clones, as most Jedi did. His first real host had been a revelation. Instead of an orderly, distant, and businesslike feel, Tooru Lyy had been vibrant, fierce. When the Rodian had retired, with all the loud and playful complaints he expected of her, Dai Parum had been intrigued by Plo’s curiosity about his native Baran Do. Jedi visiting Dorin were encouraged to take local hosts, and the Baran Do as a whole seemed to find the whole matter fascinating.

Wolffe’s mind was disciplined, aggressive, and well-ordered. He had a solid privacy screen keeping his thoughts from Plo’s, while the multitude of battle plans and various necessary preparations were organized more than well enough to not overwhelm the Jedi. It was all very...efficient.

One didn’t tend to think of the clones in quite such stark terms. Yet it didn’t feel barren, so much as tidy and well-prepared. But there would be time later, to familiarize himself with his new host. Plo took a deep breath and faced Dai, who had that wry smirk Plo had never quite gotten right when he was in control unless he tapped more into the man’s memories than he ever really wanted. They bowed to each other at the same time, still comfortably in synch even with them inside different bodies.

=Best of luck, old friend,= Dai declared in his native tongue. =I do not envy your charge into battle.=

=And to you. Thank you for bringing me this far.= Plo smiled and rose, stepping forward to clasping wrists with Dai. # _I shall see you at the end of it, and we shall see if we can manage another standstill in dejarik._ #

His former host laughed, though the humor felt hollow in the Force. Wolffe’s quiet, steady support was more than welcome.

* * *

Plo hit Felucia’s ground in a full sprint, lightsaber in hand and already yelling directions at the troops. They fanned out, professional under fire even as several of them fell to lucky shots from the Separatists. He could feel Tag and Cruft pass on into the Force, and Plo had no problem letting Wolffe snarl defiance as they raced ahead to tear through the defensive line of droids.

This was nothing like the drills Wolffe had insisted upon. A small, shocked part of Plo was stunned at the ease with which they took down several squads all on their own. Dai Parum, and Tooru Lyy before him, had been good people, and kind hosts, and up to now, Plo had participated only in space and air battles, not ground assaults.

Wolffe was brutal, efficient, and made it so damned _easy_ to cooperate towards a goal. Wolffe dealt with the majority of the combat, while Plo used the Force to keep them ahead of their foes as well as subduing or destroying them. The drills had prepared him somewhat, but this was a swathe of destruction they were leaving in their wake. He’d had no idea he had this kind of capability.

It was, however, incredibly satisfying to destroy that many enemy droids and keep so many of his own troops alive.

* * *

Wolffe was breathing normally as they sat down in the area Medical had claimed. It was strange. So much of it was so very damned strange. He was used to being out of breath and working to not show it – never let the men see you sweat. He was used to hiding any wounds he’d taken, but this time, it was all minor.

He’d also been fighting much faster, much longer, and done so much more in the course of one battle than he’d seen in any of the skirmishes he’d had in his stint on the Rim when some smugglers had gotten violent.

Wolffe was startled to realize that he'd gone from pragmatic acceptance of hosting General Koon to a fierce protectiveness of the Jedi as well as a strong desire to _keep_ hosting his General. It was the capability, the steady presence in his mind, the backup and power at his fingertips. He’d become an ARC because it paid well, and he had the aptitude so why not take the promotion? He had never once imagined that he would have serious reason to _want_ a match with a Jedi.

Wolffe wanted a match with _this_ Jedi, and Parum had left the system several hours before the battle. His replacement would be due as soon as the bureaucrats could push the red tape through. He kept a tight lid on the thoughts, making sure they were well shielded and private. The war came first. The men came first. Not some idiotic whim on his part.

After the suspicious medics cleared them, Wolffe was the one walking back to their new headquarters. General Koon waited until they were inside the tiny quarters allocated to them before clearing his throat. # _We did well together, today._ #

# _Sir._ # Here it was. Official evaluation. He should probably be taking this on his feet, but it had been a very long day, Jedi enhanced stamina notwithstanding. Wolffe sat, raising a brow. # _We did._ #

# _I don’t suppose you would wish to continue to work together, Commander?_ #

Wolffe had taken his name for the fierce grin that scared all the shinies, no matter the circumstance. At the feeling broadcast to him from the Jedi, he flashed a brighter, broader version of it to the room. There was a hopeful possessiveness to the General, the strong desire to keep Wolffe that he enthusiastically returned.

# _Absolutely._ # He let his General past the mental privacy screen enough to feel those same emotions, and his smile widened at the delight he felt.

* * *

**Three years, two months into the Separatist Uprising**  
**Separatist outpost**  


Force, what a clusterfuck. Wolffe snarled as the droids shoved him into a small chair, wrenching his broken arm around into heavy-duty binders. The very fact that General Koon wasn’t saying anything, and therefore clearly had to be doing something in the Force meant Wolffe had to be in worse shape than he felt like. So both arms probably broken, then, instead of one break and a nasty sprain, like he’d suspected, and gods alone knew how much damage the rest of the beating had done. In the nearly three years he’d hosted Koon, they’d been in some ugly scrapes but this was...bad.

Almost an entire battalion, dead. Several systems, lost to the Seps. The entire front was crumbling. They were in poor shape, and the local general had taken several days to soften up Jedi and host.

Fucker had to be damn sure of herself to waste that much time.

The way she grabbed Wolffe’s shoulder and wrenched forward probably meant she knew exactly what she was doing, but he was too busy trying not to white out at the pain to hear a damn thing she said. General had it anyways, all gravitas and calm, deep retorts.

Then the Mon Cal grabbed his jaw, the fierce grip tugging their whole body forward. The curved barbs on the inside of her thumb dug into his jaw, puncturing the skin and keeping Wolffe from pulling his head away. “Listen closely, Jedi,” she snarled. “You are leaving this clone, one way or another.”

Wolffe tried to snarl a curse as she brandished a vibroblade, already humming and ready to strike. There was a flash of movement, followed by a bright, cold burn of pain along the right side of Wolffe’s face. His vision exploded into pain and darkness and the feel of blood running down his cheek. He jerked back, the Mon Cal’s claws scoring along his jaw as the barbs ripped free. Plo Koon shouted in his mind, wordless protest on top of the howling that Wolffe could feel straining his throat.

“I’m happy to _cut_ you out of there if I have to!” the Sep growled. Her hand came up under his jaw, barbs almost sinking through the high neck of his blacks. “Leave your host now or I start carving him open!”

# _Sir do not!_ # There was no way he’d be able to articulate the words even if he didn’t have that pain exploding from his eye socket, but their mental bond let him convey his meaning.

# _That is not your decision, Commander!_ # Oh gods, Plo didn’t call him that often anymore, not unless shit was either serious or formal. # _I will not sacrifice your life for mine!_ #

# _That is MY decision!_ #

# _You have no more right to force me than I do you, Wolffe! This is a risk, but at least this way they are more likely to let you live, because it_ _gives them leverage–_ #

# _Which is why–_ #

# _Wolffe! You are not allowed to die today! That is an order from your General. Let me out._ # There was a pause, and it hurt worse than any of Wolffe’s injuries, because he knew what was coming. He knew it wouldn’t be an order, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to refuse it. # _Please._ #

Wolffe opened his mouth, glad that the only being who could tell tears from blood was his Jedi.

* * *

**Three years, five months into the Separatist Uprising**  
**Jedi Temple, Coruscant**  
  


The Room of a Thousand Fountains was always beautiful. The artificial streams and waterfalls made for such an extensive habitat for the Jedi, and the lush grass provided both Jedi and hosts comfortable places to lounge.

Plo Koon was coiled on a large rock near one of the less visited waterfalls, fangs resting on the sun-warmed stone while he glared moodily at the water bubbling up and then over brightly colored rocks. The past week had been spent in more meditation than he’d seen in years.

More than he’d bothered with since Dai Parum. Plo had spent a significant number of hours meditating about his former host. Plo believed in the Republic, in the war. Well, the part about trying to keep the Confederacy from taking unwilling systems along with them, or forcing their way out of their debts and standard taxes, or the numerous war crimes they’d committed. Wanting to leave the Republic was foolish, but they had the right. Everything that had followed in the name of that, however....

Plo had not spent much time wondering if Dai Parum was right. Nor had he seriously considered the possibility of resigning his commission and leaving the front lines of the war. He could. He knew he could resign his position as a General, remain at a Temple and participate in the equally important role of teacher, raising younglings and bringing the next generations into the wider galaxy.

He could stop putting brave beings into the line of fire. He could stop being responsible for the deaths of countless sentients, be they clones, other volunteers, or Separatist idealists.

Plo was keenly aware that Wolffe would not step away from the army. It would be a mixed blessing for the Commander if Plo did decide to seek another host. Wolffe would no longer have the Force and the advantages it provided, but neither would he be targeted by Seps looking for a valuable Jedi Councilor to wring information out of.

Plo coiled tighter, letting the rough rock bite into his hide. Wolffe had lost an eye. That, coupled with the recovery time for starvation, broken bones, assorted infections, and all the privations of brutal captivity and torture, had kept Wolffe in Medical for over a month.

It had been three days since Wolffe’s release from the Healers’ tender, iron-willed care. Plo...might have been avoiding him. He didn’t like having a crisis of faith, be it doubt regarding his position, his abilities, or his decisions.

He was a decent General and war leader, but he was no Skywalker, and he was certainly no Kenobi. Even young Tano was shaping up to be more skilled than...most Jedi, really, when it came to the art of war.

Plo knew himself to be a decent to good leader with regards to the Temple and the Order as a whole. That was not something to sneeze at, nor was his position as a fully-fledged member of the Baran Do as well as the Jedi Council.

Yet he had no idea if he could really step away from the army. Soldiers, _his_ soldiers. They were his responsibility – one which he kept failing. His failures had almost cost Wolffe far more than an eye.

Plo curled a little tighter as familiar footsteps crunched the gravel on the path behind him. Wolffe sat down facing Plo. The Commander scowled down at the grass as if it had done him personal injury. He neither hid the new scar nor flaunted it. The new bionic eye was white, the heat pattern of functioning electronics bright to an unhosted Jedi’s sight. The still raw-looking scar down the side of Wolffe’s face made a ripple of guilt flutter along Plo’s fins.

“Sir,” Wolffe said, voice soft but stubborn. “No one’s been able to tell me when we’re being shipped back out to the front. The rest of the Pack is probably pretty restless by now.”

Oh, dear Force, the man was mad. Plo untwined a little, letting out a soft churr of disbelief.

Wolffe glanced down, his new eye whirring as it focused on him, the glow fluctuating as various parts shifted. “General, I’d like it on the record between us that my only concern from this... _incident_ is that if it might impair my future performance.”

Plo hissed, not meaning to, but not able to stop himself in time. They both knew that was _absurd_.

Wolffe gave that tiny quirk of a smile he favored before reaching down and resting his hand next to Plo, letting the Jedi curl up against it, brushing against the fingers enough to get a clear empathic reading. It shook Plo more than a little. Wolffe was certain. Oh, he was not happy about his injuries in the least, but there was no hesitation. He was ready to return to battle, and there was still the rock solid certainty in his cause.

Plo wished he shared that confidence. Wolffe slowly rotated his hand, flattening it out in an invitation. Plo still hesitated, but in the end, they were friends. They worked well together, and the notion of taking on a new host did not sit well with Plo. He curled up in Wolffe’s hand, wrapping around his wrist. They got through the always awkward phase of Plo sliding into Wolffe’s mouth, and then Plo was home.

It felt good as he settled into place, the feel of Wolffe’s mind and presence around him. Connecting with the man’s mind, letting his awareness slip further to the human’s form– He smiled, slow and easy, nothing like Wolffe’s sharp bite of a grin.

# _My apologies for the delay, Wolffe. I...needed to consider some things._ #

Wolffe stood up, brushing bits of grass off his pants as he made for the door. # _Understood. Are these resolved things?_ #

Plo let his smile slide into Wolffe’s toothy grin. He reveled in the comfortable synch between them. # _Yes, thank you. I take it we’re already set to take off?_ #

# _On your orders._ #

Plo toggled their com, but Wolffe did the talking. Their pace became smoother, more confident as they exited the Temple, and Wolffe was the one tilting their head up, soaking in the daylight. The new eye felt strange, and it was odd how they now had a HUD without their helmet. Still. Even that was starting to feel closer to right for Wolffe, and if he was comfortable with it, who was Plo to complain?

**Author's Note:**

> The [Resol'nare](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Resol%27nare) are the tenets of the Mandalorian culture, what it is that makes one Mando'ade. This code does NOT include "peace," as Wolffe notes.
> 
> We also have fan art! Moreover, Wolffe and Plo have fanart! 
> 
> [MoreCivilizedAge](http://archiveofourown.org/users/morecivilizedage/) put together [an adorable moment](http://morecivilizedage.tumblr.com/post/135898104759/since-my-moderndanceau-christmas-fic-gift-for-the) Wolffe being a little more open than usual. (Link takes you to their tumblr)
> 
> [Alexiel_neesan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiel_neesan) also drew up Wolffe and Plo, [ looking ready to kick some ass!](http://alyyks.tumblr.com/post/138366466643) (Link takes you to her tumblr)


End file.
